John Dewey, Professor of Philosophy in Columbia University, and his
wife, Alice C. Dewey, who wrote the letters reproduced in this book,
left the United States early in 1919 for a trip to Japan. The trip was
eagerly embarked on, as they had desired for many years to see at
least something of the Eastern Hemisphere. The journey was to be
solely for pleasure, but just before their departure from San
Francisco, Professor Dewey was invited, by cable, to lecture at the
Imperial University at Tokyo, and later at a number of other points in
the Japanese Empire. They traveled and visited in Japan for some three
to four months and in May, after a most happy experience, made doubly
so by the unexpected courtesies extended them, they decided to go on
to China, at least for a few weeks, before returning to the United
States.

The fascination of the struggle going on in China for a unified and
independent democracy caused them to alter their plan to return to the
United States in the summer of 1919. Professor Dewey applied to
Columbia University for a year's leave of absence, which was granted,
and with Mrs. Dewey, is still in China. Both are lecturing and
conferring, endeavoring to take some of the story of a Western
Democracy to an Ancient Empire, and in turn are enjoying an
experience, which, as the letters indicate, they value as a great
enrichment of their own lives. The letters were written to their
children in America, without thought of their ever appearing in print.

EVELYN DEWEY.

NEW YORK,
January 5th, 1920.

LETTERS FROM CHINA AND JAPAN

TOKYO, Monday, February.

Well, if you want to see one mammoth, muddy masquerade just see Tokyo
to day. I am so amused all the time that if I were to do just as I
feel, I should sit down or stand up and call out, as it were, from the
housetops to every one in the world to come and see the show. If it
were not for the cut of them I should think that all the cast off
clothing had been misdirected and had gone to Japan instead of
Belgium. But they are mostly as queer in cut as they are in material.
Imagine rummaging your attic for the colors and patterns of past days
and then gathering up kimonos of all the different colors and patterns
and sizes and with it all a lot of men's hats that are like nothing
you ever saw, and very muddy streets, and there you have it. The
'ricksha men have their legs fitted with tight trousers and puttees to
end them, and they are graceful. They run all day, through the mud and
snow and wet in these things made of cotton cloth that are neither
stockings nor shoes but both, and they stand about or sit on steps and
wait, and yet they get through the day alive. I am distracted between
the desire to ride in the baby cart and the fear of the language,
mixed with the greater fear of the pain of being drawn by a
fellow being. They are a lithe set of little men and look as if they
had steel springs to make them go when you look at their course. Still
I have been only in autos, of which there are not many here. I get
tired with the excitement of the constant amusement. This morning a
man came out of a curio shop. Bow. "Exguse me, madame, is this not
Mrs. Daway? I knew you because I saw your picture in the paper. Will
you not come in and look at our many curios? I shall have the pleasure
of bringing them to your hotel. What is the number of your room,
madame?" Bow. "No, please do not bring them to my room, for I am
always out. I will come in and see them sometime." "Thank you, madame,
please do so, madame, we have many fine curios." Bow. "Good morning,
madame."